


give up the ground (under your feet)

by firehearte



Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: (barely any i promise), Amnesia AU, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Explicit Language, F/M, Gen, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Modern AU, a lot of the other newsies will be in this in small roles but this is mostly about the four of them, as far as things are currently planned out yes there is a gay happy ending, he doesn't die though!! yay for happy things, i'm so sorry in advance, it's all very pure, it's every bit as awful as you'd expect, jack and race are high school teachers together, like a lot of it, spot and katherine are lawyers together and went to law school together, spot gets hit by a car, this fic is a Ride sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-24
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-06-15 11:47:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15412230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firehearte/pseuds/firehearte
Summary: "He stopped talking to Spot hours ago, instead grading tests at the table in the corner of the room. Running out of things to say comes easily with the territory of visiting several times a day, every day, but he knows Spot’s never minded the comfortable silence that stretches between them.He just wishes it wasn’t because they had no other choice."Or, Spot gets in an accident, and Race nearly loses him completely. The amnesia AU no one asked for.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is dediated to gracedameron, who basically helped build this universe from the ground up with me. Everything this fic is is because of her. Love you Grace! <3

***

The hospital doors slide open with a hiss as Race walks in, backpack slung over his shoulder, fresh flowers in his hands. He flashes an empty smile at the nurse as she hands him his visitor’s badge for what feels like the thousandth time. She keeps her expression neutral, but he can tell she pities him. He can tell they all do.

He quickly makes his way to the third floor, clipping his badge to his tie as he does. He navigates the hospital as easily as he navigates his own apartment, which makes sense considering he spends less time there than he does here now, in his boyfriend’s hospital room. 313. A number more important to him than any other now.

The door is open and he hears the beeping of machines well before he enters the room. As much as he hates it, the sight of the love of his life lying there unconscious doesn’t faze him anymore. The bruises and the bandages and the life support machines, the half a dozen doctors and the constant rotation of nurses… it gets easier. It’s almost routine. Counting down the days until the month runs out and he has to make the final call on life support, it’s routine.

_“What would you do if I ever ended up in a coma?” he’d asked him, years ago. An idle thought. A “could you imagine”, a joke of a question._

_“I’d be sad that my beautiful boyfriend couldn’t sing to me anymore.”_

_“I’m serious.”_

_He’d sighed, rolling his eyes. “I dunno, I wouldn’t wanna be a vegetable. Would you?”_

_“Nah, just pull the plug. I’d definitely hate that.”_

_“Got it. Me too. A month, tops.”_

_“Deal,” he’d laughed. “I’m glad we covered that. Now pick a movie, for the love of God.”_

A month, tops. 30 days. What Spot and Race had both put in their living wills as part of their advance directives.

The accident had been three weeks and two days ago.

***

Spot hasn’t texted him back, which would be fine, except he’s starving and his extra help had run over because he had to stay to help make sure his kids understood at least the basics of derivatives for their test tomorrow, and it would be really really great if Spot could pick up dinner for them on his way home from the office.

_(5:41) Race: spot_

_(5:42) Race: spotttttt pls get dinner :,))))_

_(5:42) Race: chinese? i’m craving it_

_(5:48) Race: is this because i told you your nature documentary was dumb because i’m sorry it’s not nature is great i am so hungry oh my god_

_(5:55) Race: i think i’m dying tbh_

_(6:00) Race: ugh i’m gonna be home soon i GUESS i’ll order delivery_

_(6:01) Race: answer ur phone u fucker i KNOW ur done at 5:30 today_

_(6:30) Race: spot wtf_

_(6:33) Race: are u cheating on me :,( or are u getting surprise chinese :,)_

_(6:56) Race: spot can u call me back or at least lmk ur alive pls i’m getting worried it’s not funny_

At seven, he calls Jack. He’s trying desperately not to let his mind race ahead of him but his voice is shaking as he asks, “Hey, have you heard from Spot at all today?”

“No, I texted him last night but I haven’t talked to him today. Why, are you alright?”

“Yeah! Yeah, fine, just - haven’t heard from him in a bit. I’m sure it’s fine.” _Totally fine._ “I’m, um, I’ll call you back later, okay?”

“Yeah, let me know when you hear from him.”

“Mmhm.”

“I’m sure he’s fine, Racer. I mean, it’s Spot.” Jack doesn’t sound worried at all, and Race tries to let that calm him.

“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. Bye, Jack.”

He hangs up before Jack says anything else, trying to ignore the pounding in his chest. _It’s Spot. It’s Spot, he’ll be fine._

At seven-thirty he starts pacing, keeping in time with the ticking of the clock in their living room. At eight, he sits down on the couch, directly opposite from their front door, and calls Spot for the fourteenth time. It goes straight to voicemail this time, which could mean a lot of things.

“Maybe his phone died. Maybe he’ll be home any minute,” he whispers to himself. He doesn’t believe it, not even a little bit. Spot never lets his phone get below 70%, a trait that Race thinks is hilarious considering his phone is always running at somewhere around 15%.

(Not tonight. Sometime between the pacing and the sitting and the waiting, he’d plugged his phone in. It sits at 100%, waiting.)

It’s 10:03 PM when his phone rings. He lunges across the room from where he’d resumed pacing, nearly ripping the charger out of its port as he presses answer without even bothering to check the caller ID.

“Spot, thank god, what the-”

_“Hi, is this Anthony Higgins?”_

His heart stops as the unfamiliar voice on the other end of the phone continues. _“My name is Dr. West, from NYU Medical Center. I’m calling about Sean Conlon.”_

***

“Hey, Spotty,” he says quietly as he drops his bag next to the visitor’s chair already pulled up next to the bed. “I brought you new flowers, which I know you would hate if you were awake, but… gotta find some humor in this situation somewhere.”

He changes the flowers out, refilling the vase Katherine brought with fresh water, and then sits down in the chair next to Spot, grabbing his hand in his own.

“So, you know that test my BC Calc kids had a few weeks ago? Well, I finally got around to grading ‘em, thought they would be absolutely terrible. Turns out I’m an even better teacher than I thought,” he laughs. “The average was, like, a 92. They better kick ass on their AP exam, I swear to God.”

He continues on like that, telling Spot about his day, as he has every day for the last 23 days. About his kids, his tutoring, about Jack and Katherine and the rest. He keeps his voice upbeat and cheerful, carefully neutral when he feels himself getting emotional.

The doctors have told him more than once that it’s questionable whether or not Spot can hear him. That with the CT and MRI results, the unknown extent of the brain damage, the less-than-satisfactory brain activity, it’s not very likely.

As far as he’s concerned, the doctors can go fuck themselves.

***

They tell him it was a drunk driver. Some idiot who got smashed before 6 PM and drove their Range Rover into his boyfriend.

Direct collision. Full impact. What would’ve been a hit and run, if the driver hadn’t crashed into a pole a minute later.

It could’ve happened to anyone. It could’ve happened to _anyone._

He keeps it together well enough as they explain what’s happening now. He doesn’t register more than that Spot’s in surgery, that’s he’s been in surgery for hours and will probably be for several more, and that he’s in critical condition. Race is already out the door, car keys gripped tightly in his hand as he makes his way down to the garage. He doesn’t waste time on tears, mind overwhelmingly loud as he drives to the hospital.

He doesn’t remember the last thing he said to Spot. Had he kissed him goodbye?

_Had he kissed him goodbye?_

_Goodbye._

_Goodbye._

The word echoes in his brain and he turns the radio on, blasting it as high as he can to drown out his thoughts.

He parks as close to the hospital as he can in a no-parking zone, ignoring the dirty looks he gets as he gets out of the car and walks towards the emergency room entrance. Time slows down as the doors slide open and he walks into what has to be the busiest ER he’s ever seen. There are people screaming from behind curtains and family members crying in the waiting room and everything is so _loud_ and -

“Sir? Can I help you?”

He turns around to find a nurse staring at him, a mildly bored look on his face.

“Uh…” He shakes his head to clear it. “I’m Ra- Anthony Higgins. I’m here for Sean Conlon? He’s my boyfriend, he was in an accident.”

The nurses raises an eyebrow. “Boyfriend? Were you called by our staff?”

“I- yes, yes, I’m his next of kin. He doesn’t…” Race’s voice cracks and he swallows hard. “I’m all he has.”

The nurse’s expression changes and he nods, leading him out of the way, towards a desk in the corner. He types rapidly on the keyboard in front of him, and somehow the sound of the keys is louder than every other noise in the ER put together.

The nurse nods, muttering under his breath, “Sean Conlon, OR 4… okay, yeah.” He looks up at Race and plasters on the same smile Race uses when he tells a student they’re failing his class. “Did they explain what happened to him to you?”

“I- y-yeah, he got hit. Drunk driver. They said… they said he was in critical condition.”

“Yes, it’s rather touch and go right now. If you want, one of the interns can take you up to the third floor, that’s the floor all of our operating rooms are on, you can wait in the waiting area there.”

“Touch and go, as in…”

The nurse sighs. “It was a bad accident. Sean suffered life-threatening injuries, but our surgeons are doing everything they can to save him. If you go to the waiting area, we can get one of the surgeons out to update you as soon as it’s possible, okay?”

“Okay,” he echoes. He’s lead to the third floor by an intern who’s far more interested in the case he’s currently missing out on to walk Race to the waiting area than in offering any words of comfort. Race is grateful for it. If someone tried to offer him condolences right now, he’s pretty sure he’d lose it.

Instead, he buys himself a cup of coffee to keep himself awake, and sits in a chair in the corner of the waiting area. And waits.

And waits.

And waits.

***

He stopped talking to Spot hours ago, instead grading tests at the table in the corner of the room. Running out of things to say comes easily with the territory of visiting several times a day, every day, but he knows Spot’s never minded the comfortable silence that stretches between them.

He just wishes it wasn’t because they had no other choice.

***

The clock on the wall only says 4 AM, but Race swears he’s been in the waiting room for days. Doctors have come out three times now to update him, but he’s barely processed any of it beyond the fact that Spot being in surgery for so long means that he sustained life-threatening injuries. And that putting him back together is pain-staking and difficult.

_We still don’t know if he’ll pull through, but we’re doing everything we can._

_Do whatever you can,_ he’d begged. _I don’t care what you have to do, please just save him._

The doctors who come out to update him every once in a while are kind, giving him warm and encouraging smiles that somehow don’t seem practiced, even though he knows they are. Even though he knows that they’re just signs of good bedside manner.

Jack had texted him hours ago, asking if everything was good with Spot. Race hadn’t been able to answer him back, hadn’t been able to bring himself to type the words out.

_Spot’s in the hospital._

_Spot’s in surgery._

_Spot might be dying._

_Spot might be dying and I don’t know anything._

_He could be dead right now for all I know._

It’s a relief when his phone dies and the pressure to figure out some sort of response dies along with it. He knows he’ll pay for it later, knows Jack is probably worried sick, but he has more pressing things to worry about right now.

It’s nearly 6 AM when one of Spot’s surgeons comes out again. Race snaps awake from his half-asleep state immediately, jumping up to meet her in the middle of the waiting room.

She smiles warmly at him, and he thinks his knees might buckle in relief. A smile means he’s good. A smile means he’s okay. A smile means he’s alive.

“Is he-”

“He’s stable. We finished up the surgery and they’re bringing him up to the ICU now, I can explain in greater detail the extent of his injuries and how we operated but you should just know he’s alive and, for now, he’s stable.”

His heart drops. “For now?”

“With accidents like this, it can be unpredictable for hours afterwards. It’ll really be a wait and see, but right now, we’re optimistic. There were, however, complications during his surgery that may result in more drastic actions needing to be taken, but that’s something to be determined later on.”

The only medical knowledge he has comes from shitty TV dramas, but he knows if there are complications during a surgery, it’s never good. “C-complications, what kind of complications?”

“His heart gave out about midway through. We were able to revive him, but the stress on his heart plus the other injuries to vital organs and to his brain mean that things will be, well, touch and go for a bit. But for now, he’s stable, which is a good sign.”

Tears prick at the backs of his eyes and he forces himself to keep them at bay as he asks the one question he cares about above all else now - “Can I see him?”

The doctor smiles again, and this time it grates on his last nerve. “It’s very late, and we’re not exactly sure when he’s going to wake up. It might be best if you go home and get some rest before you come back to see him.”

“No,” he says forcefully, shaking his head. “No, I- please, just let me see him, just- I need to see him. I’ll sleep after, I swear, just… I need to _see_ , I need to see him _."_

She nods, placating, hand touching his shoulder soothingly. “Okay. Alright. I can take you to his room now and talk you through his surgery if you like?” He nods gratefully, and they start off down the hall.

“Is… I mean, he was in surgery for so long, what- what are his injuries, are they permanent?”

“His injuries are…” She searches for the right word. “Extensive. He suffered a direct collision with an SUV, those don’t come without considerable damage. He…”

The words blur together and Race is too tired to fully comprehend what he’s being told, but certain buzzwords make it through the haze. _Blunt force trauma. Collapsed lung. Three broken ribs. Broken wrist. Damaged vocal cords._

“Sorry, did you- did you say brain damage?”

She nods at him, matter-of-fact. “The whiplash from the impact caused a lot of swelling, which is normal for traumatic brain injuries. In this case, though, the extent of the brain damage is unknown right now, and will be until he wakes up.”

“But… I mean, you’re positive he’ll wake up, right?”

He looks sideways at her as she purses her lips. “With a surgery like this, injuries like this, it’s impossible for us to give you a 100% guarantee. It really depends on the next 24 hours or so.”

“Okay.” His voice sounds shaky and fragile to even himself.

“This is his room here,” she says as they reach the end of the hall, tone softer now. “Don’t be alarmed by the facial injuries - they look at lot worse than they really are. But it’ll be an adjustment.”

Race nods, staring through the small window in the door. The bottom half of the bed is visible from this angle, revealing a cast on Spot’s left leg.

“I’ll give you some privacy, alright?” He barely hears her, opening the door slowly.

He’d thought the hours of worst case scenarios swirling through his head had prepared him for seeing Spot again. He’d been dead wrong.

He’d never seen Spot look so _vulnerable._

Surrounded by nearly a dozen life support machines, he looks smaller than Race has ever seen him. His face is nearly unrecognizable, blue and purple and swollen so bad on one side it hurts to look at. He feels like he’s in a dream as his feet pull him closer, like any second he’ll wake up to Spot shaking him awake, asking if he’s okay, if he had another nightmare. Instead, when he reaches out an unsteady hand to gently touch Spot’s arm, Spot doesn’t move.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, words barely understandable as he chokes back the sobs he knows are coming. “I’m so sorry, Spot.”

He presses his hands to his forehand and takes a deep breath. “Fuck,” he breathes, and when he looks down at his hands, they’re shaking. “Fuck fuck fuck.”

It’s all he can do to grip the railing of the bed to keep himself upright before he breaks down, tears he’s been keeping at bay for too long coming hot and fast. They’re silent, the kind of agonized sob that wracks your body so hard you can’t get enough air to make a sound. The kind of crying that leaves you out of breath, tired and devastated and in physical pain.

Eventually, he winds up in a chair, head in his hands, tears long since dried, staring at Spot’s chest rise and fall, painfully aware that it’s only doing so because of the life support and not of its own accord. It’s only when a nurse comes in for mid-morning rounds that he realizes that it’s no longer Friday night but Saturday morning, and that he should really go home and get some sleep. He rises from the chair, presses a kiss to Spot’s forehead, whispers a promise of _be back soon,_ and walks out the door. He’s halfway down the hall to the elevator when he stops dead in his tracks.

Going home means going home to an empty apartment.

Going home means going home alone.

***

It’s nearly nine in the morning when Race finds himself in front of Jack and Katherine’s apartment building. He’d abandoned his car, taking one look at the ticket he’d gotten from parking in a no-parking zone and opting to walk instead. The thought _I need a fucking drink_ had crossed his mind as he walked, followed immediately by nausea as he thought of Spot in the ER, put there by a drunk driver, and then the realization that the sun was out and day drinking after being up for over 24 hours was probably the worst thing he could do for himself. So he’d walked, aimlessly, as far as his legs would take him in the state of exhaustion he was in. He only realizes he’d walked to Jack’s when he looks up and sees him standing right in front of him.

“Race? Jesus fucking Christ, I’ve been texting you all morning, are you okay? Is Spot okay? Oh my _God_ , is Spot-”

Race holds up a hand to silence him, too exhausted to ask him to shut up. Jack’s face grows deadly serious, and he cautiously puts a hand on Race’s shoulder.

“Race?”

“I… I don’t- I mean, I can’t-” His eyes fill with tears, and he takes a breath to steady himself. Jack nods, understanding instantly like he always does, and puts an arm around Race.

“Not here. Come on, upstairs, come on.” He guides Race into the building and to the elevator, glaring at the oblivious woman who tries to board with them. Race doesn’t have the energy to be embarrassed as she steps out again, leaning against the back wall of the elevator tiredly.

“You look like hell Racer, what happened?” The question would be harsh if it were coming from anyone but Jack. Race looks up at the mirrored ceiling, and even the dirty, distorted image can’t hide the fact that he looks absolutely wrecked. Race looks over at Jack, who’s looking at him with nothing but concern, and back at the ceiling.

Jack gets the message. _When we’re inside. Not here._

The second Jack closes the door to his apartment he turns on Race, who’s already collapsed on the couch, head in his hands.

“What happened, Race? You gotta clue me in here, you’re scarin’ me to death.”

Race laughs, a hollow, choked noise that fills the room. “It’s Spot,” he says, and it’s a shock he can get the words out with how difficult it is for him to even physically form them.

“He… he got hit,” he breathes, voice trembling. “By a car. He was in surgery all night, and I only just got to see him, and then they sent me home. They don’t know when he’s gonna wake up. Or if…” His voice hitches, and he wipes angrily at the tears that spill as Jack sits down next to him on the couch, face ashen.

Race waits for Jack to say something, to offer words of comfort like he always does. Jack always knows exactly what to say when it comes to his friends’ problems, always. Except now he’s staring at Race, tears in his eyes as he shakes his head slowly, and Race’s heart drops as he realizes there’s no words of wisdom coming. There’s no reassurance here.

“Hey Jack, I was just about to leave, I didn’t think you’d-” Katherine stops short where she stands at the top of the hallway, one earring in, the other still in her hand. “Oh, no.”

Race turns to look at her.

“I was gonna stop by your apartment before I went to work,” she says. “It’s Spot, isn’t it?”

Race cracks a smile - brittle, and barely there - and pats the couch seat next to him. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, it’s Spot.”

Katherine looks at the both of them - at Race, who’s so exhausted he’s beyond the point of tears, and Jack, who’s fighting sobs even as his breathing grows harsher - and sits down between them on the couch.

“Can you tell me what happened, or do you wanna wait?” she asks softly.

Jack looks to Race, who shakes his head and leans back against the couch cushions, eyes closed in defeat. Jack steadies himself, reaching over to grab Katherine’s hand.

“He was in an accident, Kath,” he says quietly. His grip on her hand is crushing, but she doesn’t flinch. “He was in surgery, and they dunno when he’s gonna wake up.”

“Oh God,” she whispers, shaking hand coming to cover her mouth in horror. “Oh God, Spot.”

She turns to look at Race, trying wildly to think of something to say, anything, when she realizes he’s passed out, fast asleep on their couch.

“Was he up all night?” she asks, already up and moving, grabbing the blanket from the other end of the couch and draping it over Race, who doesn’t even shift. Sheer exhaustion has knocked him right out.

“I don’t know, I don’t- I dunno, Kath, I know as much as you,” Jack stammers, running a hand through his hair. “I mean, probably, look at him, he’s a fucking mess.”

“Jack!”

“Sorry, ‘m sorry, I just- it’s Spot. Y’know, I mean…” He looks at Race, then back at Katherine. “It’s Spot.”

Katherine nods, smiles, and sits next to him, pulling him close so that his head rests on her shoulder. “It’s awful. I’m so sorry.”

“He’s my best friend Kath,” he says, sucking in a sharp breath. “We grew up in the system together. Crutchie is my brother, but I’ve always protected him, he doesn’t- he doesn’t know everything, doesn’t understand. Spot’s the _one_ person who’s always…” He can’t bring himself to finish the sentence.

“I know,” she says, and her voice trembles. “I know.”

He takes one shuddering breath, and then another, and then finally lets himself cry, clutching Katherine’s arms as he sobs into her shoulder. He can hear her hushed cries and quiet sniffling from above.

“He’ll be okay,” she whispers eventually, still stroking his hair. “Both of them. They’ll be okay.”

“You don’t know that,” Jack says, and his voice cracks. He clears his throat. “None of us know that.”

“I know.” She leans her head on top of his. “It’s just what you say.”

He shakes his head, pulling back to look at her. “Race is a mess. I walked outside and he was just standin’ there, starin’ right through me. Like he didn’t even know me.”

“He’s scared, Jack. Spot’s unconscious in a bed right now.”

Jack sighs. “Yeah.”

“He’ll be okay,” she says again, and Jack nods, even though he doesn’t believe it. Even though he knows she doesn’t believe it either. “It’ll be okay.”

“Yeah.”

***

It’s eight at night when Race finally leaves Spot’s hospital room to go home. He’s finished grading his tests, he’s spent longer than necessary going over his lesson plans, and now he’s run out of excuses. He can only keep a one-ended conversation running for so long before it grows wearing.

Coming home to his apartment has become a necessary evil. At first he’d avoided it at all costs, crashing on friends’ couches instead. He’d barely set foot in the place except once, the night after the accident, to pack a suitcase of clothes for work, two sets of pajamas, and basic toiletries before he’d been out the door again, showing up on Jack’s doorstep, and then Albert’s, and then Davey’s, and then Jack’s again, until finally Jack had looked him in the eye and told him, in only the way a best friend could, to get his shit together and go home. He’d been furious, and he’d done it.

Finally going home had been a relief for his friends. A visible stepping stone, something to point at and say _Look! I’m doing okay now! You don’t have to tiptoe around me anymore, I’m handling things, I’m back home, back in a routine. I’m doing okay, I swear._

He doesn’t tell them he still sleeps on the couch. Sleeping in his bed, in _their_ bed, alone… he wouldn’t do that. Couldn’t do that.

After setting his alarms, he plugs in his phone (now perpetually at 90% or above; he can’t take the chance that the hospital will call and he’ll miss it), makes sure the ringer is on it’s highest setting, and sets it down on the coffee table. Mentally he checks off another day.

Three weeks and two days since the accident, done. One week left until the deadline.

He’d never realized how serious the word ‘deadline’ truly was until it was attached to an actual death. A hypothetical one, but still, a death nevertheless. One that was seeming less and less unavoidable with each passing day.

One week. Seven days. 168 hours. 10,080 minutes. 604,800 seconds.

The math calms him, gives his brain something to do. If he thinks about it long enough, divides the numbers long enough, they become meaningless, unattached to the countdown.

_One week, seven days, 168 hours, 10,080 minutes, 604,800 seconds..._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to update this story at two week intervals... so much for that. Life seriously got in the way, but my winter break is soon, so hopefully things will be more frequent.
> 
> Despite the (ridiculously long) hiatus, chapter two is finally here! Enjoy!

Race has always had a reputation.

Growing up, with his friends, he’d been the jokester. He wasn’t confident, or particularly interested in school, so he’d overcompensated with comedy, marking himself as the lazy slacker with the sarcastic remarks before anyone else had a chance to. Once his tenth grade algebra teacher had seen through the cheeky smile and the razor-sharp wit to realize he had a natural aptitude for math and had stopped excusing his bullshit, he’d begun applying himself, until he was known as the lazy slacker who, as it turned out, was secretly a genius.

Genius? No. Hardworking? Hell yes.

In college, he’d been intense. Deadly smart, ambitious and determined, with a lot to prove and nothing to lose. A partier, the kind who went all weekend and still got himself up for his eight AM classes. He’d excelled in school, graduating with a degree in mathematics in the top five percent of his class. He’d had his pick of graduate programs, research opportunities, fellowships, but he’d turned them all down for a graduate program in education. He’d become a teacher, something his own professors had told him was a waste of his potential, but he’d never regretted it. Not when it had brought him his best friends.

Not when it had brought him Spot.

He has a reputation now, as the cool teacher. He knows it, knows that his kids like him, even if they pretend they don’t. The pride flag in his coffee mug of expo markers and the picture of him and his boyfriend displayed proudly on his desk make him several students’ favorite teacher automatically. The math memes he posts on his wall instead of the usual motivational posters sway even more. The wall behind his desk is covered in cards and letters and thank you’s that he’s received from students over the years.

He’s a hardass, and pushes his kids constantly, but that comes with the territory of teaching honors and AP students. He’ll assign 50 problems if he thinks it’s necessary, or if his students are being disruptive, but his general work hard, play hard policy seems to work just fine. He keeps protein bars in his bottom drawer for the kids who forget to eat breakfast. He lets them play Kahoot games more often than not. He gives extra credit to the ones who never miss a homework assignment. He only marks students late if they’re rude. He’s a good teacher, a great teacher, even.

These days, it’s getting harder to remember how he did it.

“Allison!” he snaps, glaring across the classroom at the girl in question. “Phone away, or I’ll take it for the day.” He raises an eyebrow to punctuate the threat, hating how uncomfortable she looks as she slides her phone back into her pocket.

He’s been snapping at students more and more lately. He knows they’ve noticed, catches the shared glances and irritated whispers. He’s started avoiding the teachers’ lounge, where his colleagues actually know what’s going on and still whisper about it behind his back. He’s not sure which is worse.

He gives two more detentions before his lunch break, pen stabbing into the pad as he signs the slips of paper. He fixes both students - two of his favorites, called out for nothing more than whispering while he’d switched between powerpoints - with disappointed looks, and they lower their gazes as he hands them their slips. He turns away before they have a chance to say anything, bracing his hands on the desk and lowering his head in frustration.

He hates being the shitty teacher. Hates being the teacher who takes out his problems on his students. He’d always resented those teachers in school, the bitter ones with the family problems who came into the classroom and unleashed their frustrations on their unwitting students. He hates that it’s who he’s becoming now.

He knows Spot would hate it if he could see.

“Too bad he can’t,” he mutters under his breath.

“Uh, Mr. Higgins?”

He spins around to find two of his students, Josh and Ellie, standing nervously in the door. He can’t help the sigh that escapes him even as he’s plastering on a smile. He knows exactly why they’re here.

“Hey guys, what’s going on?” He leans back on his desk, keeping the easy smile.

Ellie looks to Josh, who rolls his eyes and pushes forward into the classroom.

“We were just wondering, it’s been a few weeks since GSA has had a meeting… When are you free to supervise the next one?”

He pretends to think, even as he grits his teeth. Being the faculty advisor for GSA is one of his favorite parts of his job. Or, another _used to be._

“Umm, Wednesdays are still best, it’s the only day of the week I’m not tutoring. Is lunch or after school better?”

“Lunch is good! Most of us have practice and rehearsals and stuff after school.”

He nods and looks to Ellie, the GSA president, who’s already got her phone out. “Perfect, Wednesday then. You’ll send an email out?”

She gives him a thumbs up. “Already on it.” He feels his phone buzz in his pocket and smiles.

“Awesome, thanks. See you guys in class,” he says by way of dismissal. They show themselves out, and he pushes off his desk, circling the classroom while he thinks. He has lunch and then a free period, giving him an hour and a half before he has to be back to teach. It’s enough time to stop by the hospital, even though he’d stopped by in the early morning before first period

He knows his time is limited. Spot’s improvement has been subtle and slow, not promising enough to bring about any optimism but still significant enough to keep Race from the brink of despair. And yet, the thought of making the trek across town to the hospital is exhausting right now.

He opts for coffee instead.

The teachers’ lounge is blissfully empty, and he cherishes the silence as he pours himself his fifth cup of coffee and nibbles halfheartedly at a breakfast bar. He’s sick of walking into the lounge to interrupt conversations about him.

Four more days.

“Hey, Sir Yells-A-Lot!”

Race sighs and closes his eyes, downing the rest of his coffee before he turns to face Jack, standing in the doorway of the teachers’ lounge, tired resignation on his face.

“What do you want?”

“Don’t snap at me,” Jack says, stepping into the room and letting the door swing shut. “Not like I’m one of your students.”

“I don’t need a lecture.”

Jack looks at him incredulously. “Well, your students are complainin’ so much, next thing you know they’ll be startin’ a ‘Get Mr. Higgins Fired’ campaign.”

Race rolls his eyes, stalking over to the coffee machine and pouring himself another cup.

“What, are you not gonna say anything?”

“I told you I don’t need a lecture, and you didn’t listen. Why should I talk to you when it’ll go in one ear and out the other?”

“I should be sayin’ the same to you.”

Race shrugs, exasperated. “What do you want from me?”

“Stop bein’ a _dick_ , Race! You’ve never given a detention in your life, and now you’re givin’ ‘em out left and right. It’s ridiculous, it’s gotta stop! Your kids are good kids, they don’t deserve to have you take your issues out on them.”

“Don’t tell me how to run my classes, how _dare_ you-”

“How dare I? I had a girl _cryin’_ last period because you gave her a detention for checkin’ her phone when you were answering a call. Apparently she’s never gotten a detention before, until now. Because of you.”

“Shut up, Jack!” Race runs his hands through his hair, biting hard on his lip. “I- I know it’s been rough, okay, I just-”

“Don’t use Spot as an excuse,” Jack fumes. “We’re all dealin’ with shit right now, okay? _All_ of us, don’t act like you’re the only one who’s fucking affected by this.”

Race slams his cup down on the counter, not even wincing as the scalding hot coffee splashes out and onto his hand.

“You don’t get to tell me how to act,” he warns, struggling to keep his voice even. “Not this week.”

Jack’s expression softens.

“Race, no one is sayin’ you gotta be a saint. Especially not this week. But you can’t behave like this either, Spot wouldn’t-”

“Spot isn’t _here_ , Jack!” Race take a deep breath, angry with himself for letting his emotions get the better of him. He’s been good, keeping them turned off while he’s at work, and now...

Now the way Jack’s looking at him now makes him want to cry.

“I gotta go, I have a break, I’m gonna run home, I, uh… I can’t be here,” he mumbles, abandoning his coffee and his half-eaten breakfast bar on the counter and averting his eyes as he grabs his bag and stalks out the door.

“Racer!”

Race debates not answering Jack’s call, continuing down the hall and storming out the front door. He lasts three seconds before he stops short, turning around in surrender to look down the short stretch of hallway at Jack, who’s leaning out the door.

“You’re better than this, yeah?” Race doesn’t say anything. “Fix it.”

Race turns around. _Fix it._

He makes it halfway home before he’s changing trains and making his way towards the hospital. He only has a few days left. He doesn’t know what he’d do if he lost Spot and had to live with the knowledge that he’d had a chance to be with him before then and not taken it.

***

Race’s leg bounces in double time to the slow beeping of the heart monitor as he sits and stares at the screen. After a few days of sitting around he’d looked up what all the numbers were, googling words like ‘systolic’ and ‘diastolic’, trying to figure out what the hell SPO2 meant. He’s not sure knowing is better.

Spot hasn’t improved in too long.

That’s what the doctors keep telling him. At first he’d been improving slightly, and then it had begun to plateau. They’d thrown a lot of medical terms at him, let him be lost, and then explained it all in layman’s terms that made him even more scared.

He’s coming up on his deadline, and now he’s praying for a miracle.

“Why the fuck did we sign living wills?” he mutters tiredly to himself, not for the first time, as he sits with his head in his hands next to Spot’s bed. They’d done it mere months before the accident, _giggling_ as they’d signed them. They’d gotten wine-drunk and slow danced in the kitchen that night, exchanging half-mumbled promises about living forever, together.

He’d bought an engagement ring the next day. It’s still sitting in his bottom drawer.

(He’d thought about returning it, one night, about a week ago. Turned the box over and over in his hands for hours, and then cried so hard he’d nearly thrown up. He hasn’t looked at it since.)

Race knows if Spot were here, he’d tell him to get his head out of his ass. _Stop throwin’ yourself a pity party, Racer._

The voice morphs into Jack’s, yelling at him in the teacher’s lounge. _Stop bein’ a dick, Race!_

_You’re better than this._

_Fix it._

Race looks Spot over again, at the face that’s healed of most of its bruises but is still utterly blank, emotionless and unscathed except for a deep cut on his right cheek that Race knows now will scar. The sigh that leaves him is long and measured, and he counts to ten as he breathes out. If he doesn’t time himself, give himself rules, he’d never leave Spot’s side, never go to work or see his friends or sleep or eat or do any of the things that he gets to do and Spot doesn’t. So he counts to ten, memorizing every detail of Spot’s face again as he does, mentally resolving to fix it, fix _himself_ before he becomes a teacher and a friend (and a boyfriend) he no longer recognizes, and then stands.

He hates walking out of the hospital room. Hates leaving the ICU, hates stepping foot outside the damn hospital he’s had to make his second home in the last month.

He hates a lot of things recently. He’ll be damned if he lets himself become one of them.

***

_Dear all,_

_Sorry for the lack of GSA meetings in the past few weeks. I haven’t been myself recently, for reasons which frankly don’t excuse the behavior I’ve shown in the classroom. Since we’ve missed a few weeks, our next meeting will hopefully be making up for lost time, so we’ll be covering a lot of ground. As always, it’s up to you guys what we talk about in meetings - if any of you have any ideas you can forward them to Ellie, or bring them to me. If you have any questions or just want to talk, my door is always open._

_See you all on Wednesday,_

_Mr. Anthony Higgins_

_Mathematics Department (ext. 19)_

***

The GSA meeting goes well.

He knew it would - he barely does anything as the supervisor, just double-checks the discussion topics and occasionally steers the conversation away from sensitive topics that he knows from experience lead to tension and fighting and, in one case, the throwing of chairs. He never minds missing his lunch break for this, especially when he has so much to make up for. The thinly veiled bribery apology cookies he’d bought for the meeting had gone over great; after all, the way to any student’s heart is free food. They’re all good kids, and he breathes a sigh of relief as the last one exits the classroom.

He hadn’t fucked it up after all. Maybe things are on the up.

(He should’ve known better than to be so optimistic.)

***

The deja vu as he sits in the back of the taxi is overwhelming.

He’s not the one driving, not this time, but he swears to God the driver is him from a month ago; he blinks and suddenly he can see himself, grip on the steering wheel too tight, shoulders tensed, terror and anxiety rolling off of him in waves. Time is slowed down and sped up all at once, and he’s been in this car for what feels like ages, except when they finally make it to the hospital he’s nowhere near prepared to get out of the car.

_Spot’s waking up._ Katherine’s voice, on the phone, not even twenty minutes ago. She’d gone with Jack to visit him and somehow, he’d woken up. She’d called him right away. _A miracle,_ she’d called it.

_A fucking miracle._

He has three missed calls from Jack but his hands are shaking too hard for him to even think about picking up the phone as he crosses the threshold of the hospital he knows inside and out by now, coming to rest in front of the elevator bank. He presses the button what must be one thousand times before the doors slide open, and he collapses heavily against the back wall of the elevator. A numbness fills him and he knows it’s in his head but he can _feel_ the pressure on his shoulders as the elevator starts to rise.

A voicemail from Jack pops up on his screen and he shoves his phone in his pocket. The elevator is moving too fast, he’s already on Spot’s floor and he hasn’t even gotten his shit together and -

The doors slide open, and Race’s world tilts dangerously sideways as he walks out. He can make out Jack and Katherine are at the end of the hall, surrounded by a bustle of nurses and doctors streaming in and out of Spot’s room. Something’s off, but he can’t place it, can’t pay attention to them, not when Spot’s awake. His feet are lead and his mouth is dry, and he’s standing outside Spot’s door before he can process the fact that he’s taken a step. Jack and Katherine are talking intently with one of the doctors, backs turned to him, and he disregards them entirely, stepping into the room and sidestepping the nurses to take in Spot.

Awake. Disoriented, but awake. Groggy and nervous and confused, but awake. He yanks his arm away from a doctor trying to check his IV and Race nearly sobs, the scowl on Spot's face so familiar and endearing, such a change from the unsettling lack of emotion of the past month. Spot pushes back in his bed, turns his head to the side, and locks eyes with Race.

“Spot…” It’s not even a whisper, a pathetic whimper of a word. Race is at his side now, once again unaware of having moved, and his hands shake as he reaches out to touch him.

“Get the fuck away from me,” Spot snaps, voice gravelly and rough. He dissolves into a coughing fit and a nurse pushes Race away, bending over Spot with a stethoscope.

“Baby,” he tries again, and Spot turns to glare at him.

“Get out. Get the fuck away from me, get the hell out,” Spot rasps out. “I don’t know who the fuck you are. Get out.”

_Scared. He’s scared._

That’s Race’s initial reaction, before he’s even processed the words. Spot’s lashing out because he’s scared and confused. It’s one of the first things Race had learned about him - the number of times Spot says _fuck_ in a minute is directly proportional to either anger, fear, or arousal. And this time it’s fear - pure fear in his eyes, even as he glares and yells.

Then the words hit.

_Get out. Get the fuck away from me. Get the hell out._

Of all the fucking possibilities, all the resulting traumas, all the outcomes in the goddamn world… Race almost wants to laugh at how fucking horrible everything has turned. At how perfectly fucking wrong it feels.

_I don’t know who the fuck you are._

_Get out._

He does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now we're really getting going!! Once again, my medical expertise is limited, but that's not why any of us are here, is it?
> 
> Last but not least, if you want to yell at me for this feel free to do so in the comments or on tumblr @firehearte!! Nothing fuels me like being yelled at for my writing tbh!

**Author's Note:**

> My medical knowledge only comes from college-level biology, Grey's Anatomy trivia, and nearly 2 years as an EMT, plus the research I've done for this fic, so bear with me, I'm doing my best!!
> 
> If you want to yell at me for this feel free to do so in the comments or on tumblr @firehearte!!


End file.
